Supernatural fic: dreaming long grass and birds on the wire
dreaming long grass and birds on the wire [Supernatural, Dean/Sam, first time, wingfic, R, 2,091 words, vague spoilers for the end of season 2. For astolat, written for spn_holidays - it's a little scrap of a gift because your proper story isn't quite finished and I wanted you to have something on time. A huge thank you to femmenerd for the fantastic beta.]
dreaming long grass and birds on the wire
The cat sleeps on the atlas in Alsace Lorraine, dreaming long grass and birds on the wire
I have memories no deeper than this glass and some besides that stretch history twice
--- Shot Through the Fog - Piano Magic
He sleeps, head under one wing. Dreams.
*
Sam changes at will now. Man to bird and back again. Mostly he just lets wings form, nothing else. A man who can fly, and Sam believes in miracles.
Dean doesn't, not even now. A brother with wings like an angel, and he only believes in hell. Life's what you make it and there's no reward, just punishment. That's what he claims. He's stubborn like that.
*
In a world where demons are loose and corpses rise and lemures walk at night, a man with wings is really nothing strange. Or so Sam tells himself.
He doesn't see why Dean should have the monopoly on denial.
*
It's for Dean, of course. It always is.
Empty handed, all their weapons back in the Impala. They're caught off guard, with a hu hsien in the shape of a dragon in front of them - so close they can feel the stench of its breath - and a cliff drop gaping behind. Only one choice, really. Clean jump.
But Sam's not ready for heaven or hell or a short goodbye or any other goodbye. He's not ready for that.
So he grabs Dean, and he flies. Life in slow motion, hiss of the wind in his ears, and the heft of huge white wings spread out above them like clouds.
Peaceful. Just a moment, Dean with his mouth open but no words coming out. At least, none that Sam could hear.
*
Dean faints. Lack of oxygen, he insists later. And Sam believes him, because there's no fear in Dean's eyes when he opens them again.
*
Sam's shirt is in shreds, and it's his last clean one. Saved from the mouth of hell or jaws of death or claws of whatever, and all he can think is crap, we need to do laundry. He laughs, and maybe it's a little manic, a little too loud and bright - doesn't excuse Dean punching him.
Sam explains the joke when he's wiped the blood off his face. Dean doesn't think it's funny - always has had a bad sense of humor. Only enjoys sick jokes when they're his own.
There's blood on Sam's shirt now.
*
"What the fuck was that?"
"The flying?"
"No, Sam, the road sign we just passed. Of course the flying, moron." Dean gets sarcastic when he's pissed off, but then he does when he's scared too, and sometimes it's hard to tell the difference. Sam thinks he's just angry - seems to be their thing, getting angry whenever they save each other's lives.
Sam shrugs. It's what he does - no words, so his shoulders rise and fall, only this time his wings rise and fall too. He feels them, off-balance from the unaccustomed mass.
"You're a freak," Dean says, anger fading as fast as it grew, and Sam nods to himself.
There's demon blood in him (he licks his lips sometimes, chasing the imagined taste of it), he's seen the future and changed it, he's died and come back to life. He's a freak.
*
He can't wish it had never happened, but he wishes the wings were gone. Prays quietly under the covers. Not ready to be anything else, yet, dammit, God. Not ready for this. Fuck it, I don't need this.
His prayers used to be more polite. Start with a please, end with a thank you and amen like he thinks his mother might have taught him. Now he begs and pleads and demands. And sometimes curses too.
He blinks his eyes, and the wings are gone, the sheet and blankets dropping into the vacant space.
Prayer answered, maybe.
*
But still he tries to leave, light and quiet on his feet when he needs to be, sneaking out of the room before Dean wakes. Not going for good, just a while, to get answers - he wants to know if it would have been better if he had crashed and died. Only halfway across the motel parking lot when he hears a low Sammy, dammit, don't you- and Dean's footsteps, bare on gravel. That must hurt.
Sam stops and turns around. Should've known it wouldn't be that easy.
"You should put some shoes on," he says.
"You fucking idiot."
"Hey, I'm the one with footwear," he tries, but Dean's lost his sense of humor again. It's getting to be a regular occurrence. Keeps blaming Sam for it too.
“You fucking idiot,” Dean repeats, man-handling him-pushing and shoving into the middle of Sam's chest. Sam lets him, walks back unsteadily, Dean up in his face, shoving him every time he slows. He's not sure if he's waiting for the punch or the punchline. Just knows there are no answers the direction he's going.
And then Dean pulls apart the last thing Sam thinks he understands. Pushes him up against the door and kisses him, almost vicious, like this has been a long time coming. Pulls them apart, who they are, everything they are, and Sam doesn't know what he's putting in its place. But he feels like he's flying again - better, even - as he holds Dean to his body and kisses him back.
Maybe he's just been asking the wrong questions all along. And maybe the answers aren't black or white or easy - doesn't make them wrong.
*
Sam thinks flying's a one-off. The stress of near-death - does things. Made him move a wardrobe, made him grow wings. A one-off - like the kiss - it happened once but won't again.
Until it happens again, when there's no danger, nothing threatening Dean. Just a rest stop, Dean standing steady at the side of the road taking a leak, piss steaming up from the dusty ground. Sam stretches his legs, walking alongside the road a ways. He needs to stop thinking about kissing Dean, needs to stop remembering the feel of Dean pressed up tight against him, so instead he thinks of wings, thinks of flying, how it felt. Thinks of freedom, and suddenly he's in the air, not far, not more than a few feet off the ground, but it's enough to startle him. As soon as he realizes what's happening, his wings stutter and he drops and lands, half run, half fall.
He hears Dean curse - could be he's zipped up carelessly, could be he heard Sam and looked around, saw what happened. Sam thinks it's the latter - all he wants now is to vanish.
And he needs to stop wanting, stop wishing, because he's in the air again, tiny bird, and when he tries to make a sound it's a trill.
*
He doesn't fly away. He flies to Dean, lands in his hands, feels so tiny as he lets Dean cup his hands around him and settle him in the car. Dean doesn't say a word, but he's careful, and Sam stares up through unblinking eyes at a face full of bemusement and wonder. Dean grabs his fallen clothes then, still speechless, and Sam's grateful for them because next thing he knows, he just wants to be human again and is - naked and chill, bare ass sticking to the seat.
The drive that day seems twice as long as it should. Sam's not even sure where they're heading, doubts if Dean knows either; they're just driving so they don't stay still, driving until they find another job, or a way to go back and find the hu hsien.
They've been stopped long enough for Dean to get a room key before Sam notices the lack of movement. He wasn't asleep, his mind was just too full, too far away. Could be worse, he was thinking, could be all kinds of worse.
He gets out the car and realizes he's not worried about this. Maybe he should be, but he isn't.
*
There's a bag of bird seed on the bedside table beside him when he wakes and Sam snorts. Dean's out - Sam can tell by the easy silence in the room, more comfortable than the silence in the car.
He rolls over and tries to fall back to sleep, but the blanket's thin and too short so he shivers. Wishes he were warmer, nothing more than a vague wish, but it's enough - seconds later he folds his wings around himself, soft downy under-feathers warm against his back. So simple - he wishes he were colder and they're gone; wishes for warmth and they're back.
He decides to keep them and he sleeps well.
*
"I can control it," he tells Dean, voice hopeful. "Could be useful."
Dean grimaces, shrugs and eventually nods his head. "What the hell," he says. "Why not? We can do with any extra help we can get."
Still calls him freak and bird boy, and asks if Sam could turn into something really useful like a griffin, but that's the only way he refers to Sam's condition. It's not a gift, it's just a thing they don't really talk about, another elephant in the room.
The room's getting crowded.
*
"Does it hurt?" Dean asks. Clarifies, "To change."
Sam shakes his head, then says, "No," out loud because it's dark enough that Dean probably can't see him. Sam can't see anything, face in his pillow. He's got wings again now, has had every night. He sleeps better with them, with the warmth. Dean must have noticed, but hasn't said anything until now, not directly.
Sam can hear Dean fidgeting. He can sleep on anything, anywhere, so Sam knows it's not the sagging mattress that's making his brother toss and turn. "It doesn't hurt where the wings grow?" Dean asks, like he's been trying to find a way of not asking, but can't help himself.
"Why? You offering to kiss it better?" He's joking, but the words fall into silence.
Then there's the sound of blankets being thrown back, bare feet on the thin carpet. Sam feels hands on his wings, pushing between to find the ridge of bone where they sprout out. Dean's breath on his back, cool, though it's not the temperature that makes Sam shiver. Dean licks the knobs of his spine, pushes his hands up among feathers.
It feels good, feels amazing. His wings flutter, automatic response, and he can feel Dean's amusement, kissed into the nape of his neck.
Not a one-off then, the kiss, and Sam's glad, more than just glad - he needed to know, to be sure, that Dean wanted this as much as he does. Hadn't wanted to ask, because he knows Dean would do anything for him, whatever the cost, he's proven that too often. So he waited.
"Took you long enough," he says, because he's been waiting and wanting and he isn't that patient a guy, not really.
"Just for that, 'm gonna take it slow," Dean says. Sam can feel Dean's cock, half hard, trapped against Sam's leg. He moves against it, rubs up against Dean - light tease - and feels Dean huff. Feels the heat of him, naked skin against naked skin.
"Slow, huh?" Sam asks.
"Fuck slow," Dean says and they move in unison, as perfect as when they're on a hunt, Dean shifting back and Sam using his wings, lifting himself. He settles on Dean's lap, finding him by feel as much as sight. Finds Dean's jawline, smooths it with his thumbs like he would a girl, but it's Dean and it's all rough stubble and strong bone and Sam's kissing him and it's incredible. Soft flesh under Dean's jaw, and Dean fucking growls when Sam nips there, so Sam does it again and again just to hear the sound of him.
Dean's hands are fucking everywhere, like he doesn't know Sam's body at all and needs to learn every inch of him. And Sam's rutting against Dean, doesn't care about finesse, just wants to get in closer, grind his cock down on Dean's and let the ache that's been building up inside him out.
Dean's gripping him now, hands wrapped tight around the base of his wings, and it should be weird, but every nerve in Sam's body is saying yes. He spreads his wings out, full stretch, and he hears something fall across the room but he doesn't care, ignores it. Dean's pumping his hips upwards, and Sam's grinding down, and he feels like he's going to explode.
"Come for me, Sammy," Dean says, and he does.
*
Dean sleeps, head under one wing. He shivers, and Sam opens his wings wider, enough to cover them both. Head beside Dean, he falls asleep.
//
dreaming long grass and birds on the wire
The cat sleeps on the atlas in Alsace Lorraine, dreaming long grass and birds on the wire
I have memories no deeper than this glass and some besides that stretch history twice
--- Shot Through the Fog - Piano Magic
He sleeps, head under one wing. Dreams.
*
Sam changes at will now. Man to bird and back again. Mostly he just lets wings form, nothing else. A man who can fly, and Sam believes in miracles.
Dean doesn't, not even now. A brother with wings like an angel, and he only believes in hell. Life's what you make it and there's no reward, just punishment. That's what he claims. He's stubborn like that.
*
In a world where demons are loose and corpses rise and lemures walk at night, a man with wings is really nothing strange. Or so Sam tells himself.
He doesn't see why Dean should have the monopoly on denial.
*
It's for Dean, of course. It always is.
Empty handed, all their weapons back in the Impala. They're caught off guard, with a hu hsien in the shape of a dragon in front of them - so close they can feel the stench of its breath - and a cliff drop gaping behind. Only one choice, really. Clean jump.
But Sam's not ready for heaven or hell or a short goodbye or any other goodbye. He's not ready for that.
So he grabs Dean, and he flies. Life in slow motion, hiss of the wind in his ears, and the heft of huge white wings spread out above them like clouds.
Peaceful. Just a moment, Dean with his mouth open but no words coming out. At least, none that Sam could hear.
*
Dean faints. Lack of oxygen, he insists later. And Sam believes him, because there's no fear in Dean's eyes when he opens them again.
*
Sam's shirt is in shreds, and it's his last clean one. Saved from the mouth of hell or jaws of death or claws of whatever, and all he can think is crap, we need to do laundry. He laughs, and maybe it's a little manic, a little too loud and bright - doesn't excuse Dean punching him.
Sam explains the joke when he's wiped the blood off his face. Dean doesn't think it's funny - always has had a bad sense of humor. Only enjoys sick jokes when they're his own.
There's blood on Sam's shirt now.
*
"What the fuck was that?"
"The flying?"
"No, Sam, the road sign we just passed. Of course the flying, moron." Dean gets sarcastic when he's pissed off, but then he does when he's scared too, and sometimes it's hard to tell the difference. Sam thinks he's just angry - seems to be their thing, getting angry whenever they save each other's lives.
Sam shrugs. It's what he does - no words, so his shoulders rise and fall, only this time his wings rise and fall too. He feels them, off-balance from the unaccustomed mass.
"You're a freak," Dean says, anger fading as fast as it grew, and Sam nods to himself.
There's demon blood in him (he licks his lips sometimes, chasing the imagined taste of it), he's seen the future and changed it, he's died and come back to life. He's a freak.
*
He can't wish it had never happened, but he wishes the wings were gone. Prays quietly under the covers. Not ready to be anything else, yet, dammit, God. Not ready for this. Fuck it, I don't need this.
His prayers used to be more polite. Start with a please, end with a thank you and amen like he thinks his mother might have taught him. Now he begs and pleads and demands. And sometimes curses too.
He blinks his eyes, and the wings are gone, the sheet and blankets dropping into the vacant space.
Prayer answered, maybe.
*
But still he tries to leave, light and quiet on his feet when he needs to be, sneaking out of the room before Dean wakes. Not going for good, just a while, to get answers - he wants to know if it would have been better if he had crashed and died. Only halfway across the motel parking lot when he hears a low Sammy, dammit, don't you- and Dean's footsteps, bare on gravel. That must hurt.
Sam stops and turns around. Should've known it wouldn't be that easy.
"You should put some shoes on," he says.
"You fucking idiot."
"Hey, I'm the one with footwear," he tries, but Dean's lost his sense of humor again. It's getting to be a regular occurrence. Keeps blaming Sam for it too.
“You fucking idiot,” Dean repeats, man-handling him-pushing and shoving into the middle of Sam's chest. Sam lets him, walks back unsteadily, Dean up in his face, shoving him every time he slows. He's not sure if he's waiting for the punch or the punchline. Just knows there are no answers the direction he's going.
And then Dean pulls apart the last thing Sam thinks he understands. Pushes him up against the door and kisses him, almost vicious, like this has been a long time coming. Pulls them apart, who they are, everything they are, and Sam doesn't know what he's putting in its place. But he feels like he's flying again - better, even - as he holds Dean to his body and kisses him back.
Maybe he's just been asking the wrong questions all along. And maybe the answers aren't black or white or easy - doesn't make them wrong.
*
Sam thinks flying's a one-off. The stress of near-death - does things. Made him move a wardrobe, made him grow wings. A one-off - like the kiss - it happened once but won't again.
Until it happens again, when there's no danger, nothing threatening Dean. Just a rest stop, Dean standing steady at the side of the road taking a leak, piss steaming up from the dusty ground. Sam stretches his legs, walking alongside the road a ways. He needs to stop thinking about kissing Dean, needs to stop remembering the feel of Dean pressed up tight against him, so instead he thinks of wings, thinks of flying, how it felt. Thinks of freedom, and suddenly he's in the air, not far, not more than a few feet off the ground, but it's enough to startle him. As soon as he realizes what's happening, his wings stutter and he drops and lands, half run, half fall.
He hears Dean curse - could be he's zipped up carelessly, could be he heard Sam and looked around, saw what happened. Sam thinks it's the latter - all he wants now is to vanish.
And he needs to stop wanting, stop wishing, because he's in the air again, tiny bird, and when he tries to make a sound it's a trill.
*
He doesn't fly away. He flies to Dean, lands in his hands, feels so tiny as he lets Dean cup his hands around him and settle him in the car. Dean doesn't say a word, but he's careful, and Sam stares up through unblinking eyes at a face full of bemusement and wonder. Dean grabs his fallen clothes then, still speechless, and Sam's grateful for them because next thing he knows, he just wants to be human again and is - naked and chill, bare ass sticking to the seat.
The drive that day seems twice as long as it should. Sam's not even sure where they're heading, doubts if Dean knows either; they're just driving so they don't stay still, driving until they find another job, or a way to go back and find the hu hsien.
They've been stopped long enough for Dean to get a room key before Sam notices the lack of movement. He wasn't asleep, his mind was just too full, too far away. Could be worse, he was thinking, could be all kinds of worse.
He gets out the car and realizes he's not worried about this. Maybe he should be, but he isn't.
*
There's a bag of bird seed on the bedside table beside him when he wakes and Sam snorts. Dean's out - Sam can tell by the easy silence in the room, more comfortable than the silence in the car.
He rolls over and tries to fall back to sleep, but the blanket's thin and too short so he shivers. Wishes he were warmer, nothing more than a vague wish, but it's enough - seconds later he folds his wings around himself, soft downy under-feathers warm against his back. So simple - he wishes he were colder and they're gone; wishes for warmth and they're back.
He decides to keep them and he sleeps well.
*
"I can control it," he tells Dean, voice hopeful. "Could be useful."
Dean grimaces, shrugs and eventually nods his head. "What the hell," he says. "Why not? We can do with any extra help we can get."
Still calls him freak and bird boy, and asks if Sam could turn into something really useful like a griffin, but that's the only way he refers to Sam's condition. It's not a gift, it's just a thing they don't really talk about, another elephant in the room.
The room's getting crowded.
*
"Does it hurt?" Dean asks. Clarifies, "To change."
Sam shakes his head, then says, "No," out loud because it's dark enough that Dean probably can't see him. Sam can't see anything, face in his pillow. He's got wings again now, has had every night. He sleeps better with them, with the warmth. Dean must have noticed, but hasn't said anything until now, not directly.
Sam can hear Dean fidgeting. He can sleep on anything, anywhere, so Sam knows it's not the sagging mattress that's making his brother toss and turn. "It doesn't hurt where the wings grow?" Dean asks, like he's been trying to find a way of not asking, but can't help himself.
"Why? You offering to kiss it better?" He's joking, but the words fall into silence.
Then there's the sound of blankets being thrown back, bare feet on the thin carpet. Sam feels hands on his wings, pushing between to find the ridge of bone where they sprout out. Dean's breath on his back, cool, though it's not the temperature that makes Sam shiver. Dean licks the knobs of his spine, pushes his hands up among feathers.
It feels good, feels amazing. His wings flutter, automatic response, and he can feel Dean's amusement, kissed into the nape of his neck.
Not a one-off then, the kiss, and Sam's glad, more than just glad - he needed to know, to be sure, that Dean wanted this as much as he does. Hadn't wanted to ask, because he knows Dean would do anything for him, whatever the cost, he's proven that too often. So he waited.
"Took you long enough," he says, because he's been waiting and wanting and he isn't that patient a guy, not really.
"Just for that, 'm gonna take it slow," Dean says. Sam can feel Dean's cock, half hard, trapped against Sam's leg. He moves against it, rubs up against Dean - light tease - and feels Dean huff. Feels the heat of him, naked skin against naked skin.
"Slow, huh?" Sam asks.
"Fuck slow," Dean says and they move in unison, as perfect as when they're on a hunt, Dean shifting back and Sam using his wings, lifting himself. He settles on Dean's lap, finding him by feel as much as sight. Finds Dean's jawline, smooths it with his thumbs like he would a girl, but it's Dean and it's all rough stubble and strong bone and Sam's kissing him and it's incredible. Soft flesh under Dean's jaw, and Dean fucking growls when Sam nips there, so Sam does it again and again just to hear the sound of him.
Dean's hands are fucking everywhere, like he doesn't know Sam's body at all and needs to learn every inch of him. And Sam's rutting against Dean, doesn't care about finesse, just wants to get in closer, grind his cock down on Dean's and let the ache that's been building up inside him out.
Dean's gripping him now, hands wrapped tight around the base of his wings, and it should be weird, but every nerve in Sam's body is saying yes. He spreads his wings out, full stretch, and he hears something fall across the room but he doesn't care, ignores it. Dean's pumping his hips upwards, and Sam's grinding down, and he feels like he's going to explode.
"Come for me, Sammy," Dean says, and he does.
*
Dean sleeps, head under one wing. He shivers, and Sam opens his wings wider, enough to cover them both. Head beside Dean, he falls asleep.
//